


Obsession

by lily37



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anorexia, Child Abuse, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Mental Health Issues, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4056538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily37/pseuds/lily37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is waiting for his second year of University to begin. But he doesn't spend his summer relaxing, catching up with old friends or having fun. His reality his far from ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's the mind that matters

Obsession. That’s all it could really be described as. There wasn’t really any sense to it, just an ambition that every action and decision centred towards. That’s what John was thinking as he was slowly walking the familiar route back to his semi-detached house, in a painstakingly suburban area, drenched with sweat and with stitch in his side.

“Is that you, John?” his mother called as the click of the backdoor announced his entrance.

“Yeah, I went for a run” John called back, heading towards the tap for a much needed glass of water.

He greedily gulped three large glasses, before heading upstairs to shower and change. The worst thing about coming home for the summer from University, well, there were quite a few bad things about returning, so one of them, was how he didn’t have his own room or private space anymore. Sharing a bedroom with a teenage sister definitely made life more difficult than was necessary. He grabbed some clean clothes from a pile on the floor and took them into the bathroom with him. Why every bathroom necessitated a mirror, he’d never understand. He quickly got undressed and allowed the water to beat against him for what felt like hours. There were times when this happened, when he’d lose track of time and forget that he didn’t have that luxury anymore, he had to be focused and on track. 

Heading downstairs feeling considerably fresher he flopped onto the sofa hoping to finish a few chapters of the book he was currently reading. 

“John, could you do Harry some lunch? I’m just going to fetch her now” his mum said whilst zipping her coat up.

“Sure” John murmured, wondering why a sixteen year old couldn’t cook for themselves, and why he couldn’t have ten minutes to himself for once.

“Thanks love” his mum uttered as she passed through the door.

Tyres crunching gravel made John begrudgingly sit up and half-heartedly make his way to the kitchen. Opening the cupboards and scouring the fridge made his stomach growl to remind him that he too hadn’t eat. What he’d give to just taste bread, something as simple as plain bread made his mind excited. Or cheese, God when was the last time he’d had cheese? But no. He had a job to do, and that wasn’t to make himself fat. He put together a quick sandwich with crisps, then returned back to his place on the sofa where he eagerly devoured his novel.

He was the only one in his family who appreciated literature and language. He doubted he could accurately put into words his need for alternative universes in the form of stories, or his adoration for language used with flair. It was something that only he had, something that wasn’t a shared passion or hobby amongst relatives or friends, something to save him when he needed it most. During exam season, he’d hated the relentless revision and never-ending essays, but what he’d give for just one more assignment, he couldn’t say. He hated knowing that he had days of ‘nothing’ ahead of him. Still over three months left until he could go back to London and be happy. Over three months that he’d have the distraction of perfectionism to fight off his demons. 

“Alright fatty”, Harry yelled having barely come through the doorway. “Hey” John replied, too used to the misdirected insults to get angry, but still mentally taking offense for later. “What are you doing?” she asked, already munching down on her sandwich. “I was reading” he said with a smirk. “What are you doing that for? Its summer” she replied, scrunching her nose up in distaste. “Just because you don’t enjoy books, doesn’t mean I don’t” John chided. “Put the TV on?” Harry asked, barely acknowledging that her brother had spoken. “Sure” John said, moving to grab the remotes and heading to the shared bedroom; if Harry was watching TV that bought him at least half an hour of no interruptions so he could read. 

After reading the same page three times and still not being able to recall a word of what he’d just read, John lay down on his side and stared out of the window. The sky was a bloodshot sort of sky, the one that only happens when the afternoon hasn’t quite met the evening yet and there is a heat that makes moving an inch seem an impossible feat. There was an alley way opposite the back of his house, and if he had sat up slightly he would have seen a group of youths tormenting a cat with a can of deodorant. 

He knew he should be doing something, but lately he has begun to appreciate times of doing nothing. It’s hard to explain. When he has no plans for a day, he panics, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts and his own self-irritation for a whole twenty four hours. Yet, when he tries to do something he enjoys, such as reading, his mind decides to feign a difficulty concentrating and so he is forced to resign into his own mind, losing track of time and reason. And that’s just the problem: his mind. He doesn’t want to sound like some self-righteous teenager, full of angst and confusion, looking for attention anywhere he can because of some warped excuse of a childhood. No. He just wants to understand what is going on inside his mind, something that has been festering for the last few months, but has only really taken hold recently. 

Around Easter time, he ordered diet pills and bought a set of bathroom scales for his dorm room. He also bought a novel based around eating disorders to try and give this 'thing' something to relate to, to prove that he isn’t going mad and that there are other people who think the same thoughts as he does. He’s scared to touch it, really. He isn’t sure what will happen if he lets this 'thing' take hold, isn’t sure whether he’d welcome being on auto-pilot whilst he relinquishes control and allows himself to be dictated to by something he still doesn’t know how to describe. If anyone ever asked him about his actions, he’d say he was trying to lose weight. He knows he’s gained almost a stone since last year, late night library trips fuelled by sugar-filled snacks had to have an affect sooner or later. And the worst thing, the absolute worst fucking thing, is that the one true friend he made all year there, Sherlock, had lost weight since being at University. How on earth is that supposed to make him feel? He was a disgusting, fat, waste of space [his parents’ words], who couldn’t even control what went into his repulsive mouth. Weak. W e a k. WEAK. 

He’d been saying to himself every Sunday for the last two months that ‘as of Monday I’ll start dieting seriously’, and every Monday for the last two months had seen him break that promise, and give in to his hunger before he fully realised what he was doing. This was fucking it now though. You have to be completely fed the fuck up of seeing a reflection that repels you to want to deny your body of necessary nutrients. He had a little over three months until his second year of Uni began, and ten days until he saw Sherlock to exchange birthday gifts. The pressure was on, and how he was good at working under timed conditions.


	2. Chapter 2

Stumbling to the bathroom, John blearily went through the motions and made himself presentable. Regardless of how much sleep he had, he was always inexplicably tired lately.

Making his way downstairs with a book clutched close to his chest, his mother asked the obligatory question about breakfast whilst not really caring what the answer was. ‘I’m fine, thanks mum,’ John replied, curling up in an armchair attempting to drown out his sister’s awful singing and the tinny radio station his mother was listening to in the kitchen. Whatever he tried to think about, tried to distract himself with, it always came back to the same thing; how disgusted he was with himself. He naively thought that his mind would quieten down for a while whilst he focused on losing weight and exercising, he was doing what he needed to for God’s sakes, but no. His mind roared louder than ever about every pound that he should be losing. 

Unlocking his phone and scrolling through his social media, he saw that Sherlock had tweeted about going to the gym seven days in a row. If it were anyone else, he’d say that they were bragging, but Sherlock didn’t care nor want others’ approval. He swung his legs over the side of the chair and let his head fall back, exhaling loudly. ‘John, you’re so lazy for a teenage boy!’ his mother chided as she bustled into the room carrying breakfast for her and Harry. He began to fold his form into a normal sitting position and stared at the page of his book as though it had all of life’s answers. Why did time seem to go much slower when you are on a diet? He wondered, mind fleeting from thought to thought. He wished he could get a gym pass, then that would give him something to spend hours doing that is actually worthwhile, but you had to sign up for a minimum of six months and he’d be in London by then making it pointless. 

His head felt pleasantly light with only the slightest threat of passing out dancing at the edges of his consciousness. This was his fourth day of cutting calories rather extremely, allowing himself a limit of 400 today. That was as well as running for twenty minutes; his fitness was never great to start with, but it appeared to hit an all-time low when he couldn’t even run for five minutes constantly without wheezing and physically having to stop. Harry had bought him a pair of running trainers for Christmas, which he probably should have taken as a hint, so he’d done a bit of jogging in London whenever his studies would allow it, but he still was nowhere near fit. As it was now the height of June, he tried not to run in the day as the heat would only serve as another obstacle against him; late evening, around 8PM was his preferred time, and another benefit was that the streets were practically empty so there would be no witnesses to his self-embarrassment. 

Preferring his own company than the tormenting smells of food he was not allowed, he trudged upstairs and sat on the floor, back against the bedroom door. He had no energy to do anything. The empty feeling was a welcomed bonus, but his lack of motivation was a drawback. He knew that if he even attempted to run later he would barely do a minute before stopping. Yet, he couldn’t persuade himself to eat a normal meal for fear of gaining weight and failing.

By the time the afternoon hit, John desperately needed to get out of the confinements of the house, even a walk seemed tempting despite the temperature. Thirty two degrees in the UK was enough to test the will of a saint. Clothes stuck to you. Drinking did nothing to quench you. Showering was more of an effort than a saviour. Fatigue plagued the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to feel the vicious, tempered grasp of the heat. Dizziness could be blamed on the heat and a slight lack of concentration merely suggested how Brits could not cope with anything above ‘mild’, didn’t it? Nobody even noticed how much John was suffering and how much he was enjoying it.

The empty gnawing of a demanding stomach sent thrills through his body, reminding him what he was doing this for and how he had no choice but to continue in his pursuit of happiness.  
He meandered slowly to his usual running path, head down, staring at his iPod and shuffling through songs aimlessly. His phone chimed announcing a text from Sherlock saying “How’s the North? SH”. He unconsciously smiled at the message, thanking a God he didn’t believe in that he and Sherlock had met last year. Sherlock knew that he didn’t like his home town, and despite being a few hundred miles apart it felt as though oceans separated the two teens. Deciding how to reply took a few minutes meaning he had reached the edge of the wooded area. “Disgusting, repulsive and it reeks of stupidity. JW” he sent. He could almost sense Sherlock’s smirk when he read the response. 

As he walked the familiar route, he noticed three people enjoying ice-creams and stared rather obviously at the delicious, - no, disgusting- treat. A new text came through: “I didn’t ask about your family, yet. SH”. This made John chuckle despite himself; he had gotten rather open with Sherlock during the nine months they’d lived together and only he knew the extent of his past- and present for that matter. He sent back: “If you had, there would have been a considerable amount of swearing involved. JW”. Then, upon feeling bad that he came across as a self-centred imbecile, he sent “how’s the South?” as an afterthought. 

Sherlock felt awful for having a normal family that actually showed some ounce of concern about him, when John was stuck in some hell hole in the arse end of the universe. A reply came back in under a minute “Say the word and I’ll have them exiled. The South is unrelentingly tedious beyond belief. SH”. 

John could almost hear Sherlock’s voice in his head and was surprised at how happy it made him feel. That was until his reality was brought back to him by a different text tone: Harry. He’d always kept a different text tone for her for as long as he could remember, it was important that he was able to recognise her texts the instant he received them. “Dad’s back. Where are you?” His stomach dropped and his hands shook as he stared at the phone. Shit. The rubbish hadn’t been taken out, the towels in the bathroom were no doubt unfolded if Harry had showered, and his mother probably hadn’t done the breakfast dishes yet. He sent back one word “Coming”, and began to run home. His dad often disappeared for days at a time, and these were the only days he ever looked forward to. Three and a half days he’d been able to pretend that his biggest issue was his weight, that he didn’t have other battles to fight, that he was a normal teenager.  
Red faced and panting he fell over the door step, and headed straight for the raised voices like a moth to a flame. Harry was sat on the sofa, trying to make herself as small as possible while mastering a look of bored indifference to what was going on, but John had seen it often enough and he could tell when she was trying not to break. His father was standing over his mother, ranting about the unacceptable condition of the house, and why there ‘was never a bloody meal ready’ for when he came through the door- as if any of them could mind read. John’s eyes were drawn to the thumb shaped bruise on his mother’s wrist that had not been there when he had left for his walk. His mother spent the entire time speaking in soothing tones, trying to appease his dickhead of a father, as if anything other than violence would ever satisfy him. He didn’t know whether the fact that his father hadn’t rounded on him yet was a good or a bad sign. Ding Ding. The standard text tone amongst all iPhone users was what made John wince. Sherlock was no doubt impatiently demanding John to entertain him. 

Harry was somehow fixated on the carpet’s design, but his mother and father both looked at him for the first time hungrily. His mother was glad that the attention would no longer be on her faults and someone else could be picked apart under the microscope. His father was furious.


End file.
